


My Great Finished Symphony

by StaticPhobia



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, no beta we die like wilbur, ⚠️spoilers for dreamsmp nov 16th⚠️
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:02:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27601829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaticPhobia/pseuds/StaticPhobia
Summary: In which Wilbur finally completes his symphony with Phil by his side.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	My Great Finished Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> ⚠️spoilers for dreamsmp nov 16th⚠️
> 
> so.. how we feeling after that war, yeah? please I’m in so much fucking pain it was amazing and it hurt so bad yet so good
> 
> also hide creator style, it looks better that way

“So, you are.. where exactly, now?” The voice sounded like static across the small receiver strapped to his ear, difficult to make out but still very much coherent. The shouting he heard through the stone walls was a bit distracting, but he didn’t mind. It’d be over soon, anyways.

With a nervous smile, although Phil couldn’t see it, he tilted his head to the mic in his shirt and began to respond, “in L’Manburg! There’s sort- the area, you wouldn’t know, I don’t think you’ve been here yet, but it’s the area around L’Man-“ The brunette let out a frustrated sigh at his endless stutters- why was it so hard to think of a half-decent excuse? He huffed and decided to give up on explaining, instead stating almost uncertainly, “it’s complicated, it’s geo- _geography_ and that, you know? It’s- it’s geography and st-“ He heavily winced at the sound of fireworks shooting in the background followed by the sound of something moving behind him.

His hands felt sweaty on the box of matches as he turned around to see the man he hadn’t truly spoken to in months now standing right there, looking directly at him.

“.. Phil?”

Wilbur’s voice sounded far shakier than he would’ve liked. The older man nodded with an expression underlined by disappointment, humming as he adjusted his white and green striped bucket hat. Wilbur began to attempt to explain himself, sitting sideways in the chair, but Phil quickly cut him off.

“In L’Manburg, you said.”

This room most certainly was not L’Manburg, despite the lyrics about it frantically scribbled all over the walls curtesy of the sharp sword that leaned against Wilbur’s chair. It lacked the familiar yellow, red, white and blue, replaced by cold and empty grays. The box of dynamite sitting in front of the brunette with gas dripping off of it, trailing through a small slit in the stone walls, most certainly did not help his case.

The musician didn’t bother stand from his chair but he did place his legs firmly on the ground, his fist slightly crushing the box in his hands. “Th-this _is_ L’Manburg, I-“ The look in Phil’s blue eyes told him this excuse wasn’t going to work and neither was any other, so his gaze fell in defeat.

“Okay, I will admit..” A pause followed by a sigh, he looked from the dynamite to his father. “Do you know what this is?” Phil crossed his arms over his black and green robe. He raised a brow but responded with a hum, “I do.”

“Have..” Wilbur hesitated for a moment, looking at the chicken scratch before motioning to the walls, “have you heard the song, on the walls, before?- have you heard the song?” Before Wilbur could think, he was already in a tangent, “I was just thinking, I made this big point, and it- it was- there _was_ a place where men could go, but it- it’s not there anymore, y’know? It’s not..” He trailed off, his eyes having fallen to the cold ground his boots were planted on.

The gentle hand on his shoulder was what made him look up at his father. “It _is_ there,” the blond told him, “you’ve just won it back, Wil.”

If only he knew just how false those words were. L’Manburg was not his, it never would be. Wilbur growled, grabbing Phil’s wrist and throwing it off of him as he rose to his feet, towering over the other with rage growing in his eyes.

“Phil-“ A broken laugh escaped him, “I’m always _so close_ to lighting this match, Phil! I’ve been _here,_ like, seven or eight times!” He threw his hands out for exaggeration, his right hand trembling over the box of matches. “I’ve been here. Seven or eight times,” he repeated the words once more, emphasizing just how strange it was- he’d been here so many times, and yet the country was still in tact.

He threw himself back into his chair- luckily the thing was bolted into the floor, otherwise Phil was sure it would’ve fallen from the pressure- and dug his fingers into his hair. The shouts and screams continued outside but he didn’t care, a broken sob escaping his lips.

“Phil, I-I’ve been here so many times, and they’re fighting, they’re fighting!” He shouted like his father didn’t already know, heaving a deep breath in to try to contain himself. Silence followed and he could feel Phil’s gaze on him, but he didn’t look back, eyes digging into the dynamite before him.

Finally, the other spoke, a suggestion Wilbur had thought about all too many times now. “.. and you want to just blow it all up.” Wilbur was quiet for what felt like an eternity after that, silent hot tears beginning to run down his face, down his cheeks, dripping and staining the long brown coat darker.

And then he huffed a laugh- a sick wisp of inhumane humor to fill the air. He looked up to Phil and Phil looked back, but he didn’t nod, only pausing before quietly stating, “I do, I think- I..” Even after all of this time, he was still hesitant. Wilbur hated himself for that.

“You fought so hard to get this land back,” Phil told him, considering taking the other’s shoulders but deciding against it due to prior events, “ _so hard-“_

Wilbur cut his father off with a sad chuckle, “and I don’t even know if it works anymore. I don’t even know if it’s connected.” He remembered the last time he was here- the last time he’d lit it. All of the dynamite had been replaced with duds. Fakes made of clay. He’d been sure to go back and replace the fakes with the real ones once more, but they could’ve very easily been swapped again.

“I could ignite it, and it might not even..” The thought of going through it a second time was almost too much to handle.

Phil’s response was quicker than the usual, the older’s gaze filled with nothing but concern, worry, and uncertainty for his son. A hint of determination undermined his pupils. “Do you really want to take that risk?”

When Wilbur looked away and didn’t reply to him, Phil sighed. “There is a _lot_ of explosives stacked underneath there..” He earned no response once more and breathed in, his eyes scanning the walls and the words laid upon them. Wilbur always did have a knack for writing lyrics that could be interpreted as innocent and stupid, despite truly had a deeper meaning behind them.

Wilbur pursed his lips together as he looked into his reflection in the gas. “Phil.” 

Upon hearing his name, his head snapped up. His son wasn’t looking at him, instead spacing out, though seemed perfectly coherent.

“There was once a saying, Phil. By a traitor once part of L’Manburg. A traitor- I don’t know if you’ve heard of Eret?” A small flame of anger built within Phil. His face turned into a slight sneer when the name touched his ears. Phil remembered getting a radio home from Wilbur, sobbing, explaining everything. He confirmed his son’s suspicions and saw Wilbur nod before continuing.

“He had a saying, Phil.”

He could remember the day like it was yesterday- the day arrows rained upon him and his soldiers, forcing them to retreat into a place Eret called The Final Control Room. The Final Control Room. He would never forget the way Eret laughed, the way the light reflected on his shades as they were locked inside the small room together, and Eret slid a secret one open, revealing their mortal enemies with swords and shields in hand. 

Wilbur still didn’t know why they spared them. Perhaps they pitied them, they knew just how pathetic their country was and they wanted to torment them further. Fine by him.

He laughed a menacing laugh, his chest bouncing with the once melodious sounds. He struck the match as he declared, “It was never meant to be!” and tossed the flame into the detonators.

Phil desperately cried out his son’s name, launching himself towards the other. Wilbur was tackled over the chair and they landed behind it, Phil taking the brunt of the hit.

What had been set on fire was quickly extinguished due to the gust of air caused by the very same thing that started it. This did nothing to stop the high-pitched ringing in their ears or the white vignettes in their vision. Phil shouted but he couldn’t hear his own voice, scrambling to his feet and rushing to where the chair once was-

It was sitting in a pile of rubble now, that part and further on nothing but large holes in the ground. Didn’t this used to be a room carved out of stone? It appeared to be a hole carved into a lower cliff now. Looking up onto the remaining pieces of land, all Phil could see was destruction.

Two three-headed creatures of the undead floated and attacked mercilessly onto those who were already fighting each other- his eyes were too teary to quite tell who was who, but he saw red and he saw a lot of it, and it made him sick to the stomach.

Wilbur saw Phil whip around to look at him and he saw his lips move, but he didn’t hear anything. The brunette climbed onto his knees, staring at the ash and debris of L’Manburg. Utter relief washed over him for the first time he could ever remember, a grin splitting his face open. 

“My L’Manburg, Phil!” He found he could hear himself, although faintly, as he shakily pushed himself to his feet, to his limit. The box of matches had been knocked from his grip, but he didn’t need it anymore anyways. He sharply raised his hand to his forehead, two fingers stuck out, saluting those who happened to stop and notice himself and Phil standing at the cause of chaos.

”My L’Manburg, my unfinished symphony, forever unfinished!” He raised his arms above his shoulders and lifted his head to the sky, basking in the ash that still floated through the air. And then he cackled, eyes narrowed, his arms swinging down into excited fists, “if I can’t have it, no one can, Phil!” His entire body was shaking, shivering uncontrollably, but he simply didn’t care. His L’Manburg.

Phil uttered few words that Wilbur didn’t understand nor did he make the effort to, his cheekbones beginning to ache. He did a quick spin around in celebration and stumbled over the sword that had fallen in the explosion, catching himself on his own two feet. 

His grin grew impossibly wider as he bended down and picked up the blade.

Before Phil had any time to react, a sword’s hilt was being shoved into his grip- he almost dropped it, fumbled and confused, but Wilbur held it in his hands as he dropped to his knees and began to beg.

“Kill me, Phil.”

The three words were quickly followed by many others of similar manner, “kill me. Phil, stab me with my sword- kill me, do it- look, they all want you to!” Still forcing Phil to hold the weapon with his left hand, Wilbur swept his right hand out, gesturing to the lands that still remained. The many people that stood on the edges- not everyone for certain, he still heard cries and shrieks and fireworks, but there were so many more people than he thought he remembered. He couldn’t make out their expressions, but their auras were filled with nothing but anger and misery.

“Phil, kill me!” He kept desperately pleading, voice filled with despair and relief at the same time- he didn’t know which to believe, but he was certain of one thing.

”I can’t! Wil, _you’re my son!”_

But despite this, his son did not stop.

“Kill me, Phil, _do it-“_

“No matter what, you- _I can’t!-“_

Wilbur pulled his hand away and Phil didn’t release the weapon, watching as the boy in front of him screamed in agony and dug his fingers into his scalp, pulling and yanking at his hair, his eyes bloodshot and bulging.

When Wilbur looked back up and parted his lips to speak, smile gone, Phil no longer recognized him.

”Phil! All the work that went into this- now it’s gone.”

He paused after that and that masochistic grin reappeared, a suicidal glint in his eyes. “Do it. Do it.”

And so he did. Phil plunged the sword straight into Wilbur’s gut.

His son began to cackle.

“We won- we’ve won! It’s over!” He declared, his hands instinctively reaching to the puncture. He instead brought them to his hair again, tugging and pulling at it, a small amount of blood slipping past his lip. “My finished symphony- I’ve finished. My great finished symphony.”

His maniacal laughs echoed throughout the remains of the cave and his hands shivered more violently than he’d ever seen, the callouses peeled and the blisters all red and ugly. 

“I’ve won! Tubbo- Tell Tubbo, he is the president of a _crater!_ Enjoy!”

Phil ripped the sword out of his boy and watched as he collapsed into a fit of giggles and blood.

_His great finished symphony._


End file.
